


of things love can't fix

by Artemis1000



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, F/F, Introspection, POV Sansa Stark, Post-Canon, Queen Daenerys, Sad Ending, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: Maybe we would have wed instead of warred, if our hands hadn’t been forced.Sansa meets Daenerys on a battlefield. Today, they aren't fighting on the same side. Today, the ruthless politics of Westeros have decreed they meet as enemies.Sometimes, love isn't enough to save you.





	of things love can't fix

**Author's Note:**

> When I decided I would write a Dany/Sansa ficlet, I was thinking of some nice UST-filled season 8 fic or happy post-canon fic. Instead, the prompt generator gave me "things love can't fix" and here we are.

They meet in the no man’s land between their armies.

Sometimes, late at night, Sansa remembers the fateful day when Daenerys first arrived at Winterfell and her own coldly cordial welcome that hadn’t been welcoming at all.

Sometimes, in her dreams, she feels Daenerys’s hand touch her own again like the first time they truly talked. Sometimes, but only in her most forbidden dreams, she relives the ecstasy of fire meeting ice, of kisses that burned her to the core and caresses that left scorch marks on her soul.

Sometimes, Sansa wonders if Daenerys had ever been burned by her at all. They say that fire cannot kill a dragon, but can it be marked by ice?

With Daenerys Targaryen leading the fight against the Night King and Sansa guarding Winterfell as their impenetrable stronghold, they had burned away the Long Night until the North was lit by dragon fire.

If their story had been a song, it would have ended with the passing of winter into spring.

But their song didn’t end and the dragon fire kept burning.

She does not flinch from it even now as she dismounts her skittish horse and approaches Daenerys by foot, every step measured and perfectly ladylike as if she were striding across a ballroom instead of a battlefield. In all the time they spent as allies, she had been unable to teach her mare to stop fearing dragons. Sometimes, Sansa thinks horses might be smarter than people.

Daenerys looks down at her from Drogon’s back, the only of her children to have survived the war. “I could burn you alive where you stand,” she remarks idly.

Sansa tilts her head back to meet her eyes, her gaze lingers on the soft silver curls framing Daenerys’s lovely face, on the sweet bow of lips which Sansa has kissed and even now aches to kiss once more. Once more would be enough, she thinks, except a lifetime would not be enough – except they will have neither. She swallows hard. “You could.”

There is a lot Daenerys could do, and no less Sansa could do.

There is a lot they have done to another already – too many wrongs to count or weigh them all, truth be told.

There had been a time when they laid entwined in Sansa’s bed and dreamed of righting wrongs. With whispered words and hopeful hearts, they had created kingdoms the likes of which Westeros had never known before.

It is not surprising, Sansa thinks, that Daenerys is never more beautiful than when she goes to war. She wonders, sometimes, if Daenerys thinks the same of her.

“But you won’t.” Sansa takes another step towards Daenerys, she notes the unabashed pain flaring up in her eyes before it is hidden behind the grim mask they have both been wearing since they reached the point of no return.

“No,” Daenerys says, just barely loud enough for Sansa to hear, “I won’t.”

She could burn her alive no more than Sansa could send her ample network of spies and assassins to cut the Dragon Queen’s throat in her sleep. It is what Sansa likes to believe, anyway. It makes her feel less foolish about her own shortcomings, anyway.

“I take it you won’t turn back?” Sansa asks and curses herself for her weakness the moment the words leave her mouth. She had aimed for scathing, yet a pleading undertone has snuck into her voice. She breathes hard, nostrils flaring, the only outward sign of frustration with her own weakness she permits herself. It’s funny how men think that showing courage on the eve of destruction is a warrior’s trait when ladies have far more experience holding on to their composure under direst circumstances.

“I take it you won’t bend the knee?” Daenerys meets her on equal footing in this, as she does in everything.

 _Maybe I would, if my hand wasn’t forced_ , Sansa thinks for one traitorous moment before this thought too is pushed aside and hidden under layers of a lady’s poise. _Maybe you would turn back, if your hand wasn’t forced._

_Maybe we would have wed instead of warred, if our hands hadn’t been forced._

She thinks for a moment before settling on, “Too much has happened” because _it’s too late_ would sound far too much like admitting defeat.

Daenerys nods gravely and her hands tighten on one of Drogon’s neck spines. “It has.”

“The North needs to be paid in blood for its losses.”

Again, Daenerys nods. “So does the South.”

Sansa thinks back on these earliest days after the Long Night when uneasy allies recalled that they had been enemies all along, when victory celebrations turned to arguments fighting over who held what share of the blame for their losses. When these arguments were first fought with words, then with fists, then with poison and daggers, or at least the accusations of these.

They had been naïve to believe that victory over the White Walkers would be the end of it, that their enemies would be content to have survived, that they wouldn’t pit Starks and Targaryens against another to see them both destroyed.

Sometimes, Sansa doesn’t blame Daenerys for not seeing it in time. She never stops blaming herself.

“Sansa?” Daenerys smiles when Sansa pauses, breath hitching in anticipation. Her smile is thin and mournful at the edges. “I…”

She trails off and Sansa doesn’t wait for her to continue. There is nothing left to be said between them – everything worth saying must remain unspoken.

Sansa turns her back on Daenerys without hesitation. If she wishes to burn her, she needs no dragon – she never has. It should be a triumph in itself, this display of casual disregard, and so it may look to the troops watching and waiting, yet Sansa feels every step weigh heavier on her than the last, for every step takes her closer to battle.

Once, they had been lovers. Once, they had dreamed of the better world they would build together, forged out of dragon fire and cooled by winter’s breath.

Sometimes, Sansa still dreams of it.

Sometimes, she wonders if Daenerys dreams of it, too.

 


End file.
